Non Fiction: Piano Concerto In Four Movements (2024)

KINSHIP SYSTEM IS A LANGUAGE / Non Fiction - Piano Concerto in Four Movements (2025)

This piano concerto in four movements, Non Fiction, is arguably the most complex body of work of my career. Both conceptually and musically, it weaves together multiple, often jarring threads of thought, and its structure was reconfigured several times before arriving at this final form. Initially commissioned in 2020 by the Museum of Polish Jews in Warsaw, the piece became the starting point from which to explore the broad and intricate subject of human resilience and its meaning in the face of war’s cruelty. The idea for commissioning a piano concerto was ignited by  the revelatory discovery of the music sketchbooks of Josima Feldschuh, a talented young pianist who was forced to move into the Warsaw Ghetto in 1940, from which she fled in 1943, a few months before her premature death. Her short life speaks to the extraordinary resistance of civilians and the need for normality amidst the horrific conditions of Nazi occupation.I couldn’t have foreseen how relevant this account would become, given the fundamental changes we’ve been navigating since 2020. 

The vast sociological aftermath of the pandemic coincided with Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, bringing a previously unknown proximity of war to many of us. Meanwhile, our gaze remained fixed on conflicts in the Middle East, including the ongoing genocide in Gaza and Palestine. In light of these events, a new sense of immediacy emerged around the project, making it essential for me to confront its newly swollen meaning.

The first sketches for the piano concerto were made in 2022, and an unripe version of the piece, featuring just three movements, was premiered in April 2023 by the Sinfonia Varsovia Orchestra in Warsaw. Before starting work on the piece, I was given the opportunity to explore Josima’s compositions, and to my surprise, we shared a similar musical language. Her piano pieces were influenced by the music of Bach, Mozart, and Chopin—composers whose works I knew well and deeply admired. The discovery of this shared musical language inspired me to highlight the transcendental aspect of her story and our connection. I saw Josima as a young woman, a citizen of a large city, with dreams that surpassed the boundaries of her environment and religious identity. Although I could never fully comprehend the enormity of her experience, it was astonishing to discover that we had more in common than history might suggest. The resonance of the subject is both enormous and devastating, yet it carries a tremendous, almost subversive energy—one that pushes against the restrictive confines of the warzone, it is at once activating, stimulating, and formative. Its echoing nature brings an immediate sonic resemblance, compelling me to listen closely and attune to it through the lens of the current political moment.

The composition is conceptually divided into two groups, which I call 'realms', metaphorically representing what I know and what is beyond my access, the concrete and the abstract. These qualities were later translated into distinct sonic equivalents (melody/harmony vs. noise/coincidences) and used as a framework for the piece’s anatomy. The aim was to observe how they coexist within the sonic environment, how meaning shifts, and how details are amplified through imposed tensions, dynamics and other interventions. This step led to several compositional decisions that addressed both systemic and aesthetic elements, including: introducing both scored and improvised sequences; incorporating aleatoric techniques while still relying on precise musical notation; dividing the orchestra into sonic spaces of 'harmony' and 'noise' rather than traditional instrument groups; allowing the use of various keyboard instruments (including both grand and upright pianos); saturating the timbre of the woodwinds with doubled alto flutes and bass flute; and nearly eliminating the brass section. I adopted several less conventional compositional techniques drawn from different music genres, although the overall architecture of the piece was influenced by the classical form of a piano concerto, including four movements. The third part, added later in 2024, serves as an interlude, and shifts the soundscape to the tone of a smaller ensemble before returning to the symphonic arrangement in the final movement. In the second movement, I decided to quote a small section of one of Josima’s piano compositions and juxtapose it with an ominous rumble of a six-minute timpani solo. What primarily shaped the arrangement was the desire to give the orchestral players as much space as possible within the framework of scored music. From my experience as a performer, I’ve observed that the ‘player’ often knows their instrument best. This means that, when a composer leaves room for sonic creativity or allows for small fluctuations in expression or rhythm, the result can feel more exciting and natural. This technique, known as ‘controlled aleatorism’, was popularised by Witold Lutosławski and Pierre Boulez in the last century, yet it remains highly relevant, even in genres that extend beyond traditionally conceived classical music. It also resonates with the compositional models of early music, where the score typically displays only the essential instructions—bass line, rhythm, and suggestions regarding tempo or mood. This didn’t imply that the music lacked information; rather, that the performer was expected to bring a deeper understanding of the signs and symbols in order to decipher the composer’s intentions.

When approaching the project both sonically and philosophically, what intrigued me was not just the historical aspect of the story, but how acutely pertinent it felt - somehow impossible to understand without considering the context of the present moment. If you were to juxtapose the images of the demolished city of Warsaw during the II World War with the devastated Gaza Strip today, the images are so strikingly similar that it can be difficult to recognize either location or time in history. This is why I felt compelled to approach Josima's story through the lens of my generation and the questions we are grappling with today. The aim was not only to avoid reducing something so profoundly human to a museum object, but also to use it as a means of understanding the complex fabric of the present - marked by unimaginable violence - and, through the lens of 'now,' to reconsider what dwells in the past. Thanks to social media, it doesn’t take long to become acquainted with the image of war, although what we see is often fragmented and fleeting. What is rarely constrained, however, is sound - left free, unedited, muffled. It’s usually imprisoned by a phone’s silent mode but sometimes bursts out unexpectedly, clashing with other content passing in front of our eyes, tangling with the rhythm of our daily lives. Even though we are frequently overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information presented by the media each day, the format in which it is shared diminishes the value and significance of the events, blurring the line between what needs our attention and what can be ignored. In the end, each sound and image unlocks something in our memory, forging new connections in our nervous system. This disorientating soundscape alters not only how we respond to things but also how, or even if, we recognise and remember them.I thought that focusing on these discrepancies observed in reality could provide an interesting substance to work with, converting them into musical language by using opposing values as different timbres, textures, and rhythms. Continuing with the concept of ‘realms,’ I sought to multiply possible pairings: noise and harmony, dreaming and consciousness, rising and collapsing, synchronicity and diachrony, beauty and roughness. I placed these opposites against each other in the composition, observing the dynamic that emerged as they coalesced. A fragile piano phrase is trapped in a dense fabric of string clusters and timpani growls. The promise of a harmonious chord progression is overtaken by the choking noise of violins and clarinets. The soft veil of harp passages is devoured by the vicious pizzicatos of double basses, only to be dimmed again by the hushed murmur of flutes. Things are left unresolved, yet inevitably moving forward on the music’s ‘metaphorical’ timeline.I’m not sure if music possesses the physical power to abolish political systems or conceal injustice, but I feel it has the unique ability to uncover ideas and emotions in a direct, inclusive way. Its unquestionable emotional value speaks intimately to our memory, pushes it to the front of our minds and gives us the agency to empathise with others, creating a sense of community. Music helps make seemingly distant issues more relatable, proposing a form of connection that can be felt rather than thought—experienced. And I might sound helplessly hopeful, but I believe that in the emotionally barren landscape of our times, this ability and gesture may still serve as a crucial counter-narrative within political discourse. A reverberating, transformative energy that offers clarity we can hold onto.  

© Hania Rani 2025